Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (11 page)

Blair started to say something but stopped. She didn’t want to answer his question. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Sean took the silence as his answer, and it wounded him deeply.

“I never meant to hurt you, Blair.” His voice was full of sadness.

She slid closer to her husband and tucked herself beneath his chin. He cradled her and kissed her head.

“Sean?” Her voice sounded so small. “You never hurt me, Sean. You saved me. And I love you.” She raised her head to look into his eyes. “I love you, and I love our life together, and I am completely in love with this baby growing inside me. I’m trying to make that other voice go away, but she won’t. I used to have to call for her help when I needed her. Now I have trouble making her go away. But I’m trying, Sean. Really, I am.”

“Okay. It’s okay, Blair.” He held his wife close, worried about who she was right then, fretting over who would give birth to the child growing large within her. But mostly, he worried for Blair’s sanity.

Chapter 24

December 24, 1928

Cloverdale, Oregon

V
ictory entered into the world with the usual mixture of blood and pain and joy. The Christmas Eve baby arrived with thick, dark, curling hair and enormous dark brown eyes that made him the spitting image of his mother. Ever since the night Blair confessed an alternate personality to help her cope, Sean could never be entirely sure if it was Blair who was before him or not. It was cause for some concern, and Sean knew that his young wife should probably be seeing a doctor for her condition. But there were no Carl Jung’s homesteading in the wild Oregon Territory. Sean had figured that he would treat his poor wife himself. He would treat her with even more love and more kindness and attention than ever.

For Blair’s Christmas gift, Sean had taken a photograph of her to an enormously talented painter in Blaine, who produced from the picture a splendid portrait. All who saw the portrait hanging over Mavis’s prized piano were taken back by the depth of the portrait’s eyes and the slight upturning at the corners of the beautiful, full lips, like that of the famed Mona Lisa. One house guest commented on the portrait’s mischievous smile, teasing Blair that she must know a secret that no one else knew. One of those secrets was that Blair did not remember posing for the photograph in the first place. And that was a secret that only Sean knew.

The only darkening of their blessed Christmas Day came from a visit by the Preacher Bowman, who demanded to see his grandson. Blair refused to be in the same room with her father and begged Sean to make him leave. But Sean knew that to do so would cause the townsfolk to wonder, and that led to talk. It was agreed that the preacher would be permitted to see his grandson while in Sean’s presence. It was apparent to everyone that there was no love lost between the preacher, his daughter, and his son-in-law, but no one knew why. Sean and Blair had never brought their indictment to the rest of the Marshall family’s attention, but they believed that the preacher had purposely killed Wyatt. Such accusation, however, could not be made without revealing a motive for the act. Again, the preacher went unpunished for the evil he had done.

Little victories,
Sean reminded himself wistfully as he watched the preacher cuddle and coo his son. It occurred to Sean that his father had been right about something else too: justice would not come along fast enough to suit Sean.

May, 1929

Cloverdale, Oregon

It was a time for healing. Spring breathed new life into Mavis Marshall, who had for many months allowed both body and mind to wan in the confines of her bed. She had barely survived a malady of the chest since her small, malnourished body took in little with which to fight infection. But Blair had diligently nursed her mother back to some semblance of health. Although Mavis appeared to have aged twenty years in only half as many months, she did seem to possess a new zeal for life, due, in part, to Victor. A new baby in the house had given Mavis something to struggle for.

Victor was a precious little boy who delighted basking in the love he received from his parents, Gramma, and Uncle Will. Old enough to sit on his own, his inquisitive eyes were always moving and his exploring hands always reaching.

“Look how smart he is!” his uncle Will would exclaim at just about anything Victor would do.

“Just like his daddy. It just rubs off on him, I do believe.” Blair would always follow, especially if she was within earshot of Preacher Bowman.

That day, Blair had dressed the tot in a white-and-navy sailor-like jumper with an adorable sailor hat. She had bought herself a lightweight shift of pale organza that flared just slightly at the calf-high hem. Fashion had become a new passion of Blair’s. Skirts were coming up. It was the latest style, she assured her husband. She tied her long hair into a dozen narrow braids and then swept them all up at the nape of her neck with a wide lavender ribbon. Her only adornment was a long string of opera pearls, understated, but elegant. She wanted her husband to be proud of her, but she did not wish to upstage the bride. As she began descending the stairs, her husband, handsome in his own getup replete with suspenders, whistled appreciatively.

“You don’t think it’s too much, do you?” she asked with a hint of self-doubt.

Sean lifted the hem a tad and made a production of ogling her shapely calves. “Too much? I was jus’ gonna ask you where’s the rest of it?” He laughed. “Naw. I’m kidding ya darling. You look swell.” He kissed her on the cheek. “There’s my big boy!” Sean reached for the baby. He couldn’t wait to show the baby off to Rebecca. She hadn’t seen Victor in months, and Sean could not get over how fast babies grew.

Will and Henry stomped their dress shoes on the entry rug as they came in the front door.

“C’mon, people. It’s time we got to the church. Ma ready?” Will looked at Blair.

“I’ll just go check on her.”

Fair, like his brother, Will Marshall was separated from drop-dead good looks the likes of which Sean possessed, by a pair of eyes just a tad too closely-set. But the mirth in his countenance and a wonderful sense of humor made him seem even more so. He was considered right handsome by the ladies, and women loved his distinguishing handlebar mustache.

Will took the opportunity to approach his little brother. “This don’t bother ya none, does it, Sean? I mean, Rebecca used to be your girl.”

“You kidding? I’m as happy as can be for Rebecca and Elrod.”

His brother lifted his eyes questioningly.

“Really, Will. I’m happy for them. Hey, I’m a happily married man. Rebecca and I decided a long time ago that we’d just remain friends, and we are.”

He punched his brother playfully, and Will grabbed for the back of Sean’s neck. He dodged, spun around, and…stopped short when he saw the glare in Mavis Marshall’s eyes.

“Sorry, Ma. We were jus’ horsin’ around.” He quickly smoothed his hair back into place and shot an apologetic smile in his wife’s direction.

She replied with a wry smile.

“Someone say it was time to go?” Mavis made for the door.

Sean hefted up the wedding gift from the Marshall family and made for the Model-T. Mavis Marshall thought the choice of gift frivolous for a young couple just starting out, but she had already said her piece about the matter. Anyway, Sean had been adamant. Handing over money was too impersonal, and picking out boudoir and bath items was too private. More than anything, he wished Rebecca merriment in her married life with Elrod, so he chose a first-rate phonograph and a selection of some of the most popular new songs: “My Heart Stood Still,” “Makin’ Whoopee,” “Stardust,” and “Tiptoe Through the Tulips.” Knowing how Rebecca would love the player put Sean in high spirits on this sunny May Day. The only small cloud on the horizon was the awareness that it would be the first time Sean or Blair had stepped foot inside the tiny Baptist church in Cloverdale in over a year. They still worshipped in the privacy of their own home, and Sean sent the family’s tithing to the Baptist church in Tillamook, but they had no use for Preacher Bowman’s tabernacle and fully intended that day to be their last and final visit.

Chapter 25

May, 1929

Cloverdale, Oregon

T
iny finger sandwiches, bowls of nuts, and wedding cake did nothing to quell the aching racket Bowman’s stomach was making. The Tjaden family had invited hoards of people to their reception and it appeared everyone came. The refreshments, times being what they were, scarcely made it around. None of the other guests seemed to mind—they were too busy dancing to that blasted phonograph to notice.
Where had his daughter learned to dance like that? It was a spectacle! And the hem of her dress—that was a spectacle.
As far as Bowman could tell, his daughter never threw so much as a glance in his direction the whole day long. People noticed, he was certain. Already there were fewer parishioners who attended his services, and there were far fewer tithings left for him in the church coffer. He didn’t know what was chasing his flock away, but he could ill afford to lose any more. Bowman looked down at his garb and wondered if part of his troubles were due to his air of decline.
No matter how I try, I never get my garments as clean or as pressed as she did.
Bowman had made a request of the church in Tillamook to ask among the ladies if anyone was available to take in the laundry of a bachelor preacher. No takers as yet. He growled and lumbered back across the little cottage, which had not seen a good scrubbing in some time.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
He’d descended from the fringe of nobility. His family had lineage
!

His gut gurgled loudly, putting a sharp point on his sour mood. He was hungry. Sweeping deep-set eyes over the cupboard shelves he observed his stores were nearly empty. He had coffee and he could mix up some water biscuits…He paced some more. The Preacher had looked forward to that Tjaden shindig as an opportunity to eat something other than his usual fare of boiled wheat. He was hungry for a real meal. He’d not had one since his daughter left. He’d also not had a woman since Blair left. Bowman stopped his pacing. A large carpenter ant distracted him and he watched it trek in and out of the spaces between floor boards.
He could visit the reservation in Grand Ronde. The roadhouse there served a salmon filet barbecued on a cedar plank—it made his jowls juice thinking about it—and sometimes there were women, too.
He looked again in the envelope handed to him by Angus Tjaden, his fee for performing the ceremony earlier that day. He was doubly gladdened by that irksome man’s generous heart. In spite of the poor financial state of the whole country, and some financial troubles of their own, or so he’d heard, the Tjaden’s had slipped a nice gratuity in with his fee. Bowman grew bored watching the insect and violently ground his boot into the floor, smearing the ant across two boards. He tucked the envelope into his pocket and grabbed his coat and hat.

The bootlegger often joked that if it weren’t for bad luck, he’d have none at all. One thing was certain; if good luck was to ever shine on Otis Welby, it would be when he least expected it. Well, shine it did that Saturday night in early May, 1929. And he certainly had not been expecting it.

By the time Otis got to the roadhouse it was after dark. He’d been running behind all day, and he looked every bit a tired man when he pulled his cart into the joint, loaded up with jugs of sour mash and homemade ale. It was his last delivery, he’d told Young Bear, so he enjoyed himself a cold ale while he waited for his sales ticket and cash. Young Bear almost dropped the mug he’d been drying, and Otis dropped his jaw, when a loud
bang-thump!
from an upstairs room was followed by howls of laughter in a deep baritone, and also a female’s giggle. Young Bear stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, maybe to see if it was going to crash in, but then shrugged his shoulders and resumed his polishing. Somebody was just a little over-zealous with the ol’ slap-an’-tickle.

A few minutes later Otis was finished with his beer and Young Bear had finished counting out the money owed him. Welby took his turn to leave just as the noisy upstairs couple came down the steps, still laughing and carrying on. The Indian woman came into view first, who Otis recognized as a whore who frequented the establishment. She was followed by his town’s preacher. And the man of the cloth was clearly intoxicated. Amusements stopped cold and mouths froze in brittle grins when Bowman came face to face with Otis Welby. It was Welby’s turn to smile.